


gender, genre, guess i’m on one, bent both

by jellyb34n



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Genderfuck, Jaime is a drag queen, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Semi-historical setting, Slice of life smut, Strip Tease, mild dirty talk, wearing each other’s clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29650863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyb34n/pseuds/jellyb34n
Summary: She glances at him again over her shoulder, the red of her face and the blue of her eyes all he can see, then the edge of her mouth flickers into a lift, and she says, “Just wait,” and it’s an order that straightens his spine, tightens his hands on his legs. She asks for so little, his wife, and so Jaime waits. She nods, satisfied, and turns away again, bending as she slides down her jeans and Jaime groans.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	gender, genre, guess i’m on one, bent both

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally an alternate version of what ultimately became my summer exchange fic, so while I’ve given this a scrub and an edit, there may be some lingering Twelfth Night flavour to it. Also meant to be set in a vaguely 1950s/1960s, British-ish Westeros. It’s now largely an unnecessary hangover from said Twelfth Night exchange fic, but I'm leaning into it.
> 
> Fic title from Dessa, because of course it is: Fighting Fish. Also the full line feels relevant: _Gender, genre, guess I’m on one/ Bent both/ Just the constructs of the old world/ Gone broke._  
> 

Pushing into his dressing room, the applause was a lingering buzz just under his skin, Jaime grins in greeting, tugging off his wig. The Blackfish, already there for habitual post-show gab, sprawled over the battered chaise lounge Jaime had appropriated from the previous bar. A missed opportunity, every week, as Brienne turns her nose up to shagging on it. She’s right, he grants, there are stains on it he can’t account for. And in any case, The Blackfish looks phenomenal in her artful sprawl. Barring all that thigh on display: her black cocktail dress riding up and Jaime reaches through the tassels to give the hem a sharp tug down. “You’re meant to be a _dignified_ queen.”

“That’s for the stage,” she replies, batting him off and offering a grand wave. “Off stage, I let my hair down. After a fashion.”

Jaime glances at the solid bee-hive wig towering over her brow, still in perfect nick and perfect place. “One day you’ll let me in on your secret. Or your wig maker.” And as ever, The Blackfish snorts indelicately and says, “As though you need more reason to be a cocky muppet.” Before Jaime can open his mouth to make any of the dozens of quips which come to mind, she goes on, “Have I told you about my first gig? The wig was horrendous, slipped off midway through.”

She has indeed told him that story and more than once. But Jaime likes The Blackfish’s stories, will listen to them as often as she cares to share them. He also suspects she’ll let slip the secret of her wigs if only he listens to enough stories, or he’ll land on the right innocuous-seeming question eventually. So inclining his head, Jaime lets the story wash over him, carefully settling his wig on a head model. Nowhere near the height The Blackfish’s can attain, but this one has become a favourite: tight golden curls piled high to spill down just over his shoulders. Brienne had flushed so delightfully when she’d presented it to him the other night, having nicked it to weave careful gems laced on fishing wire throughout. It was always pretty, made prettier with its glimmering gems and bouncing curls: he’s a right sex pot with it, an electric thrill from his nape to the taut tug of his arse made firm in his stiletto heels.

And in all the rest. He flicks one of the hanging curls, turns away. A glance at himself in the floor length mirror tucked in the corner, watching the swirl of his skirt as he does. The latest fashion, of course: his blouse tucks into the tight thick band of it across his hips flaring into a pleated miniskirt which swings above his knees when he walks. The shape teases the thickness of his thighs and accentuates his calves, shapely and already made more impressive by the height of his heels. It takes on an extra delectability when he knows Brienne is on her way, a slight breeze up his legs, the skim of the skirt against the back of his thighs, sensitive with renewed awareness of where she might touch, chase a case of goose pimples across his skin. 

He braces a hand on The Blackfish’s shoulder, bending to unknot the ribbons of his shoes before kicking them off into the corner. Then behind the screen to slip out of his knickers and untuck, laughing at The Blackfish’s story. She’s moved on, indulging a petty recollection about a past rival queen. A glance at the clock — he expects Brienne’s quiet knock soon, must hurry — and plunks himself down in his makeup chair — cold, shite, shifts so his skirt protects his bare arse from the cool wood — and sets about taking off his stage makeup. He’s quick and thorough about it, though not without pause to admire his winged eyeliner: exaggerated for the stage, but frankly he’d tumble himself for the sharp point on that tip.

The Blackfish hears it first, Brienne’s tentative knock. She breaks off mid-sentence and winks at Jaime in the mirror. “Ah,” she says, “Best finish that lippie, lad.” It’s been years and still his heart jumps, his chest fills with anticipation, and smiling makes it difficult to finish applying. On principle: Jaime rolls his eyes at The Blackfish, but does as he’s told, blotting with a flourish the fresh red he’s applied as Brienne’s second knock sounds, louder this time.

Jaime wrenches open the door, and there she is. She smiles, a little, and ducks inside, murmuring a farewell to The Blackfish as they pass one another. The Blackfish, for her part, saves her exaggerated waggling eyebrows for when Brienne’s back is turned. 

She’s in the room with him, Jaime breathes easy, deep, fills his chest with her. Takes gentle hold of her wrist, tugs her out of the way of the door and shuts it with a firm click on The Blackfish’s back. Brienne’s hands bunch in the back of his blouse, her hips fill his hands and she offers a soft _oof_ when her back hits the wall. He takes a moment just to breathe her in, his nose to the soft spot by her ear, then pulls back. She bites her lip, her teeth peeking through her smile, and Jaime laughs for the joy of her, and ducks forward to kiss her.

The barest press, though, before she tugs on his shirt so he pulls back. “Brienne?” he’s barely managed to get any lipstick on her mouth. One of his favourite looks on Brienne: thoroughly debauched, marked all over.

Beneath hooded eyes, voice low skimming across his skin, she says, “You, like to take me out of my clothes —”

“I do,” he agrees readily and releases her hips to shake off the weight of her jacket, slip under the loose edges of her tee-shirt but she shakes her head and he stops.

“I thought maybe,” she starts, and the flush on her cheeks climbs fast and dark and something deeply primal and impatient coils in his abdomen. He swallows it back and she blinks, takes a shallow breath. “You’d like to watch me. Take… them off.”

Immediate, “ _Yes_.” He’s never in his life meant the word more.

“Okay,” she whispers. Nods towards the makeup chair. “Go on.”

For wanting nothing more than to watch Brienne strip out of her clothes for him, it’s a battle against his own will to actually let her go and make his way back to the chair. He manages it. Turning it around to face her. She looks incredible. The jeans she wears are her favourite pair, he knows. Black, barely a shape to them, but they tease the hint of her calf, are a little stretched around her knee, well-worn, and the length and strength of her legs obvious. She’s tucked the front of her white tee-shirt into the band of her jeans and the casual way the edges hang loose makes his fingers strain to peel her jacket off, tug the rest of her shirt loose, toss the whole thing away. As he watches, Brienne does the first, shucking her jacket with a smooth shrug of her shoulders: it’s the worn black leather one he had altered himself, early on when he was still learning to sew. Altered then, and altered again last week. She’s taken up swimming, and her shoulders are strengthening, making them even bigger, making Jaime’s mouth water, and as she turns to hang the coat on the hook, her shirt smoothes enticingly across their breadth.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, a bid to ease some of the tension, he hadn’t missed the slight tremble to her hands, belying some nerves. Though there is a not insignificant part of him that also does truly want to know.

Brienne looks over her shoulder. He’d done her plait earlier tonight. Her hair is long, down to her mid-back, and she likes him to braid it for her sometimes when they go out. Sweeping the hair back from her face, he does secret battle with intransigent wisps. It’s a simple look, and Jaime’s hands sometimes itch for her to let him do more with her hair, but it makes her happy, and he likes that most of all. Her plait swings, and she reflexively raises a hand, pulls it over her shoulder. She had put on charcoal, under her eyes, at some point after they’d parted. They shine mischief at him, brighter even than usual.

He loves her.

He loves her more when her lips twitch, and she shrugs. Answering him, “It was fine.”

“ _Fine_ , chit,” he repeats to her.

“Fine,” she affirms, looking away. She bends, giving him an excellent and welcome view of her jeans hugging her arse, as she unties her heavy biker boots, steps out of them. Jaime’s mouth goes dry. She sets them carefully against the wall, and “The Blackfish was superb.”

“She always is,” Jaime agrees. 

“And the new act. She’s a very good dancer.”

“She is. She won’t be back next week, but before the moon’s out, she said.”

Brienne hums, then quiets, focusing on whatever she’s doing in the corner. He wonders if sight can bore holes in flesh. He wants to see what she has planned, but by the gods, he’s already starting to ache, and —

And the room is so quiet, he hears the slow snick of her zipper lowering.

“Brienne,” he growls. Immediately her flush blooms across the back of her neck and he knows her chest will be red from the tops of her breasts, extending up to paint the apples of her cheeks, up, up, to her forehead, teasing along her hair line, and he has never been a man of patience, not even when his wife has carefully cultivated her brazen streak and apparently taken time to conceive of a strip tease. The next growl is as involuntary as it feels pulled up from the very ground beneath his feet.

“Y-you were quite good, too,” she stutters, still facing away from him, and as though that is at all what he’s thinking about any longer. He’s been Master of Ceremonies at the club for going on eight months, and while it pleases him that he can dedicate the centre stage for Lorea in bid to put some history to rights whilst putting his sharp Lannister tongue to some creative use, he has other satisfying tasks in mind for his tongue now.

“Brienne,” he says again, lower this time, and he relishes her shiver, his hands flex where he’s clutching his own thighs. His cock tents his skirt, and somehow his blouse feels stifling against his chest. Fucking here isn’t unusual — hitherto unbroken-in chaise lounge not withstanding — but it isn’t usually — Brienne typically comes to him somewhat shy and enthusiastic, and he has so far led here as they switch at home. 

She glances at him again over her shoulder, the red of her face and the blue of her eyes all he can see, then the edge of her mouth flickers into a lift, and she says, “Just wait,” and it’s an order that straightens his spine, tightens his hands on his legs. She asks for so little, his wife, and so Jaime waits. She nods, satisfied, and turns away again, bending as she slides down her jeans and Jaime groans, bites a whimper that he’s yet denied the sight of the rounds of her arse, her shirt hanging just so, casting inconvenient shadow. She stumbles a little, stepping out of her jeans, and straightens quickly and it’s all he can take to stay seated, to only watch as she takes a deep breath, rolls her shoulders once, and then reaches for the hem of her tee-shirt. 

This is maddening. 

Still she faces away from him, but she’s certainly practised this, he thinks, this torture, raising her shirt slowly. The last time she wore this pair of satin blue briefs, he’d used his teeth to take them off. The lovebite he’d left on the back of her thigh last night is a shadow under the round of her left arse cheek, the other at the base of her spine darkens above the band of her knickers. More marks, suckled and nibbled into her skin as he’d teased her, laughed at her impatient grumbles, litter up her back as she lifts her shirt higher, finally revealing the largest, a dark smudge near her shoulder where he had bitten down when he came. His cock ticks, his skirt twitches, and Jaime groans, a loud whine escaping when she hesitates, drops the shirt and turns around.

Her torso bare, biting her lip, watching him watch her. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, he can see from the corner of his eyes, as they flutter by her sides. He wants to soothe her but his tongue is stuck in his mouth, taking as much of her in as possible all at once. Her stance is wide, and he knows every inch of her legs, from the jut of her ankles, the curve of her calves and the width of her thighs, to the delicious juncture where they meet, but he resists lunging forward, settling to his knees at her firmly planted feet and setting his mouth to learn it all again. The muscles of her belly tremble under his rising gaze, and there are marks there, too. A little older than those on her back, but his wife bruises easily, and they both like when he puts his teeth to her, sucks at her, rubs gently his beard against her, the times he lets it grow between shows, and he likes to watch her pale skin turn pink under his mouth and his stubble. 

As his eyes rise, she decides to put her hands on her hips and it broadens her. The small well-loved peaks of her breasts, her nipples taut, he licks his lips for want of licking her, just the perfect smooth expanse of her, so much freckled skin over toned muscle, that delectable layer of fat, he knows every inch by touch and by tongue, and it still strikes him, especially with her like this, a slight tremble to her but even so: she takes up so much _room_. He can’t help it, husks, “ _Chit_ ,” and she lets out a harsh breath, shivers, her areolas pebbling, that red flush sneaking up her breasts and he tracks it greedily, finally meeting her gaze as it reaches her cheeks. 

He wonders if the doubting flicker in her eyes will ever go away — it’s been years now, you’d think — but all she says is, “Where are the shoes you wore tonight?” And Jaime’s mind really, truly, short-circuits.

They had learned, shortly after their wedding, that they had feet of roughly the same size. It had delighted Jaime to laughter and Brienne’s reluctantly twitching, tightly sealed lips had eventually opened to laughter too. Their choices in shoes cross over only insofar as Brienne likes the Oxfords Jaime wears day to day and nicks them from time to time. But _this_.

He points wordlessly to where he’d discarded the shoes he’d worn to perform. A simple stiletto heel he had altered with ribbons that lace up his calf, secured at the knee in a neat bow. A similar enough colour to match her knickers, incidentally, and for all Brienne typically favoured more muted tones — barring one bright minidress she sometimes wore around the house — she had an eye for colour that rivalled his own. And he remembers she had been watching him speculatively as he’d gotten ready earlier that evening.

She takes first only half a step, then draws a steady breath and strides to where he’d discarded the shoes. Bends again, the knickers riding up, revealing the flesh of her arse, the contours of the muscles of her thighs make him groan, her strong hands trembling faintly, plain to him even from here, as she tries to quickly tie up the ribbons. 

“This is torture, Brienne,” he complains when she’s tightening the final knot, and Brienne ignores him, passing her palms down her shins, Jaime’s hands prickling enviously, before she straightens and turns again.

He tips his head up further to find her face this time, and her plump lip is caught by her teeth and he reaches out to her and finally, _finally_ , she comes to him. She’s a little tremulous in the heel, all that incredible weight of her swaying ever so slightly as she takes careful steps. He almost tells her to wait, to let him look again, but already she spreads her legs around his knees and with hands on his shoulders, lowers herself to perch in his lap.

She’s heavy, and she’s big, and she lets him see her this way, and it humbles him as little else does.

Then she looks up from under her lashes, with her lip still caught in her mouth, and Jaime lurches forward to kiss her.

She startles into a laugh — a loud, shaky bray, tipping her head back so he misses her mouth and catches her chin, and Jaime huffs, only to feel her fingers scrabbling along his thighs and then cool air hits his cock as she flips up his skirt and he sucks in a sharp breath, rearing back.

She’s staring at his bare cock, a circle of red from his lippie bright red on her chin, and he smirks at her when her eyes flick to his. She’s breathing more shallowly, and finally, her voice thready and breathless, she says, “You weren’t wearing pants on stage?”

He’ll remember that hungry look in her eyes at the question, but for now, he shakes his head. “I was. Lorea doesn’t show her cock. I took my pants off after. In eager anticipation of my wife’s visit.”

“Oh,” she says, but it’s less a sound and more a breath, and Jaime chuckles. They’ve been fucking for two years, wed for much of that time, and still Brienne sometimes startles at how much he wants her. It isn’t only about the fucking: he’ll catch her sometimes when they’re on the high street. He holds her hand, or has his arm around her waist, or can’t take his eyes off of her as she speaks, asks her questions, wants to know everything in her head, or he kisses her quick on the cheek or the lips or the temple, or he sticks his ice cream cone into her face ordering she try it, and the thrust of it is this: she’ll stun. Usually just for a beat — a flash, a moment of shock and wonder and bewilderment playing fast across her odd, perfect, collection of features, before that beloved mottled flush of hers will rush to paint her face tomato red, and Jaime will keep his thoughts to himself, and only ask why she doesn’t like mint chocolate chip.

He can’t help himself, leans to wrap his hands around her ankles, skimming his palms up, pressing his nose to the juncture of her shoulder with a pained groan at the catch of ribbons on his calluses, massages his fingers across the ticklish sensitive skin in the bend of her knee before dragging his palms more firmly up her thighs. Jaime says, “You were eager, chit,” and she scoffs, and then raises an eyebrow. He plucks at the edge of her knickers, and says, “How can I fuck you when you’ve still got your pants on?”

“Who says I want to fuck?” she asks, a defiant tilt of her chin, a twinkle in those fathomless eyes. His heart is too big for his chest.

He smiles, takes firm hold of her waist, jostles her vigorously with his knees, relishes her swallowed smile and the disgruntled noise of protest from the back of her throat. “I’ll happily wank with you perched right there,” he says cheerily. “Tugging my cock and staring at your breasts, if you’d rather. Though I’m personally interested in seeing how easily satin tears.”

“You already know how easily satin tears,” she retorts, but he’s gratified by the heat twining with the husk in her voice as she says it.

He lifts one shoulder, drops it. “I’m a slow learner.”

“You aren’t,” she says, fiercer now, and a different warmth suffuses his chest. “And _you_ gave these to me,” she adds, gesturing impatiently, mildly aghast with a half roll of her eyes, and Jaime laughs. 

“I did,” he agrees. “As stated, I’d love to rid you of them, too.”

Her breath stutters out on a low hiss, and she scowls at him but lifts herself off his lap long enough to shimmy out of her knickers, one hand braced on his knee. He leans forward to press his open mouth to the round of her shoulder as she does, the scent of her arousal wafts up, makes him moan. Then her hands find his shoulders and she’s pushing him back, lowering herself again, her legs falling to plant her feet on the ground with two loud clicks, one, two, which vibrate up his spine, her belly brushing his cock. Jaime half jolts out of his seat and she grinds against him, deliberate, and when he groans, she whimpers, then stutters, “Look in the mirror.”

Over her shoulder is the floor length mirror. He hadn’t thought about it but now he can see the expanse of her back. The lines of her legs, her calves taut and defined, arched up by the heels, the ribbons starting to fall. The firm round of her arse pressing into his thighs. The musculature of her back again on display to him, her shoulders, different now, her braid sketching down her spine, with her arms wrapped around him. She pulls back, but he’s mesmerized, can’t help watching instead the play of her muscles under her skin as she tugs his blouse from his skirt and tips her head down to unbutton him. He sets his hands across her back and her arse as she works, watching himself touch her, still a marvel sometimes, to be allowed, protests when she tugs impatiently at first one sleeve, then the other.

But when Brienne is done with his shirt, she tosses it aside and scrabbles her strong fingers to find his chin, direct him back to find her.

“Watch me,” she says.

“I was,” he murmurs, but she shakes her head, tilts his chin down, and she then passes her hands all over him. Her fingers long and strong and deft, she traces down between his pecs, smudges the makeup he’d put there earlier to shadow and imply breasts, sets her mouth to follow, the vision and press of her plump lips is so warm and so welcome and his hand tightens on her back when she tongues at his nipples, insinuates a hand down the back of his skirt to press her nails lightly into the sensitive skin of his crack. He’d already been hard enough before she’d settled on top of him, had put herself on such glorious display for him, but now, this, she shuffles a little in his lap so the base of his cock is slick as she rubs, short, abortive movements, driving him mad with the suck of her mouth on his clavicle. “Chit,” he moans, complains really, and she lets him go with a wet sound, and lifts her head, finally letting him kiss her. 

Jaime is thorough. He nips at her lips, then licks his way in, loose and comprehensive as he deepens it until they’re both moving against one another, tantalizing, too small, desperate-making, little thrusts, and he’s palming her arse, pulling her tighter and harder, and she’s panting, her hands flexing where she holds his ribs with one hand, bunching, yanking at his skirt at the crease of his thigh with the other.

“Now, nownownow,” she begs into his mouth, “Quickly, yesyes, quick,” into hers.

Her fingers strong and well practised and Brienne sinks down. They both groan, loudly, and he flexes his hips when she settles. Flexes his hips again, to sink a little deeper into the wet familiar heat of her cunt, muttering thanks to Brienne and the gods. She laughs, and swallows, slowly rising up, sinking down, whimpering as she does. “Take me, chit,” he murmurs. With her moaned assent, he leans forward to nip at her shoulder and then sinks his teeth there instead, catching her in the mirror again as she starts to move in earnest. 

The roll of her hips, undulating up her body is sensational, hypnotic, her braid snaps and sways with each roll and it’s only when the tenor of her breaths changes that he realizes he’s already getting close, guttural groans on each breath she responds to — and, gods, it’s hard as hells to look away, the movement of her body is sublime, but he wants desperately for her to come first and pressure is gathering at the base of his spine. He releases her shoulder, kisses the red bruise forming, notes vaguely the marks of his lipstick in amongst the pink and the damp, and snakes his hand up to wrap her braid around his fist, tug ever so gently until Brienne keens, her fingers tightening on him almost painfully and bares her throat to him.

He murmurs praise in her ear and she babbles back his name and _You, too,_ and broken gasps and sobs and laughs and she rides him faster, the click of the heels like jolts of pleasure delivered straight to the base of his spine to tug his sack and skid up his cock as she slides and clenches slick and tight around him. She lets go of the clutch of his shoulder to fondle her breast and the pat of her hand against his chest as she does drops to curl electric low in his belly, syncopated with the clack of her heels, she grasps wildly at his skirt with her other hand, begging, “Jaime — I ne-eeed —”

He slips his hand between them — “Yes, yes, therethank— yess _sss_ ” — with his other hand tugs gently at her braid, keeping her neck long for his tongue and his teeth as he plays well-practised at her clit until she groans and gasps then wrenches back, her face contorting perfectly, grinding down hard, her cunt a fluttering vice around his cock. Her moans slip into a loud cry, a bolt of desperation straight down his spine, his cock so hard it’s a fight to keep his eyes uncrossed watching her let free this way, where anyone might know, and Gods, but he’s never seen so magnificent a sight as Brienne, Brienne like this, Brienne like always. 

He releases her when she shudders and slumps, takes firm hold of her hips as he pumps. She watches him, her hands on his shoulders again, bracing herself as he thrusts, hard and deep and with her eyes hooded and hazy and intent on him, her mouth damp, loose, the smallest smile turning up the corners, she reaches for his face, cups his cheek — there’s nothing like being watched by Brienne, nothing at all — he comes hardon a shout, pulsing deep, deep inside her, Brienne humming, her fingers stroking in his hair.

A final twitch and he wraps his arms around her, falling back and she folds fully against his chest, gasping heavily. He nuzzles his nose into her hair, catching his breath.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and Brienne’s chest drags on his when she laughs, more a gust than true laughter, and she nods, her sweaty temple dragging hair on his shoulder and it’s so —

She says, “I agree,” at the same time he says, “I love you,” and she gasps another laugh, presses her mouth to his chest, and says, “Love you, too.”

After a moment, Jaime adds, “I would like the record —”

“Oh gods,” Brienne says, then turns her face against his chest, smothering giggles, smothering her question, “What record?”

“My mental record,” Jaime says blithely, ignoring her repeated exhortation to the gods, “I’d like it to show that your stripping was incredibly arousing. Any and all times you fancy a repeat performance, I’ll be there with bells on and cock hard.”

This is met with silence, then Brienne’s fingers find the ticklish spot just under his rib cage, making him yelp and squirm, until finally he captures her hands, threatens, “I will dump you on the floor,” with less severity and more breathlessness than he’d intended. She only huffs laughter into his throat, shaking with it at his added, “Naked as your nameday on that tile. Won’t hesitate.”

This provokes no response, only one final snickering huff against the hollow of his throat, and she tugs her hands loose. “Have you ever worn bells?”

“You know, I don’t think I have. Something to try.”

“A cat collar, perhaps,” she offers, and he’s impressed by the full beat it takes before she’s laughing again, and he might begrudge the suggestion but that he laughs too, and also makes note.

Brienne shifts to press more firmly to his chest, the sound of the heels skidding on the tile, her back curving at what has to be an uncomfortable angle, but he knows better than to argue with her as she nudges her nose under his chin. Jaime shifts, his skirt rucked now and bunched awkwardly under his arse. He tugs at it until it’s more comfortable, jostling Brienne so she stretches her arms around his back, then reaches for a discarded coat, one of the Blackfish’s he thinks, a heavy brocade thing, and drapes it over her shoulders and his legs. 

“So really, chit,” he says when breathing is easy again. It’s become important once more, and he prods her side with his thumb. She starts, grumbles protest against his chest. “What did you think?”

With reluctant shifting, Brienne drags herself upwards and rests her cheek against his shoulder so her breath dances across his collarbone and she sets her fingers stroking mindless shapes over his chest. “I laughed at all your jokes,” she says and it’s a bit begrudging.

Jaime smiles. Strokes his hand up and down her back, his other hand cupping her arse. “But,” he prompts.

“I have notes on your finale.”

“Good. It felt a little off to me too.”

She lets out a soft sigh. “It was… fine, it just —”

“What I said about —”

“Yes. And also the —”

“I wondered about that.”

“Only a little tweak.” 

“Do you think so?” he asks, skeptically. She takes too long to answer, so he lightly pinches her bum and she starts, then huffs, and pushes herself up and away from his chest. He misses the weight and heat of her, but she is rather glorious, post-fuck, that luxuriant coat hanging heavy about her shoulders with the rest of her on casual display, pale skin decorated with blossoms of pink and circles and smudges of red all across her shoulders and breasts and belly, a smeared circle on her chin, that soft furrow to her brow, thinking deeply. 

She finally admits, “No, more than a tweak,” and she sounds reluctant, like she’s sorry he isn’t perfect, and that she has to be the one to tell him. Well. Jaime is often sorry he isn’t perfect, though is humble enough to recognize how close he is. And for all that, Brienne loves him. 

She blinks slowly at him, then smiles a little. “Your outfit and makeup were lovely though.”

“Lovely,” he repeats thoughtfully. He hasn't ever described Lorea as lovely; may need make adjustment, if lovely proves apt.

“Beautiful,” she corrects after a moment’s consideration. She raises a hand, touches the tips of her fingers just beneath his bottom lip. “Your lipstick looked nice in the stage lighting. This one’s nearly gone,” she continues, a little shy, “But it was very nice, too.”

He smiles at her when she meets his eyes, takes his time studying her. There’s a streak of his lipstick across her lips and he raises his thumb, smudges it a little.

“You’ve stolen most of it,” he murmurs. “What a ruse you’ve concocted to steal from your unsuspecting husband.”

Still flushed, she rolls her eyes at him but smiles. “Have some of it back,” she whispers, leans forward, kisses his cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> Jaime’s drag name is based on Loreon V Lannister, also known as Queen Lorea, who was definitely a cross dresser and possibly trans, centuries before ASOIAF takes place. Jaime here adopts the name in a bid to reclaim that history and honour Lorea.
> 
> My thanks as always to auntie_social who took time to beta this not once but twice, with other things on the go, and yet as ever with enthusiasm, care and insight, and jokes which made me laugh out loud. Particular shout out for a gentle note re calf ribbons being Not So Easy And Straightforward As That, Jellyb34n. As ever, this has been made better by having her eyes on it first ♥
> 
> On a related note: without wanting to give it away, this fic shares a key element with auntie_social’s very lovely holiday exchange fic, [N06: Radical Red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434429), and to my mind this is evidence we've spent just the right amount of time emailing over the months that we each separately conceived of a similar concept, if coming to it from different angles 😌 (and if you’ve not yet read that fic, may I suggest you hie thee!)
> 
> While [this photo](https://imgur.com/s3jg4FL) is not the inspiration for Brienne’s look here, I was chuffed to come across GChristie wearing a v similar outfit to this Brienne prior to her strip tease. Also in trying to find that photo again, I discovered that googling “Gwendoline Christie leather” brings up… many very good results. That said, the braid is 100% inspired by Gwen in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.
> 
> Thank you for reading & I hope you enjoyed! ♥


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